


They'll Write Our Names in the City Streets

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, Holidays, POV Karen Page, POV Matt Murdock, Secret Identities, s1 AU with a little s3 backstory sprinkled in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: In which Matt and Foggy own a sandwich shop, Karen is a loyal customer, and secret identities abound - and can’t stay hidden forever.He was right: the light over the sink was flaky, buzzing in and out. But there was a moment when she looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in his clothes, and found herself smiling.When she came out of the bathroom, there was a smile on Matt's face too. His head lifted, as if he were catching a whiff of something in the air; if she were still being fanciful, Karen would say he was taking in the scent of her all wrapped up in his clothes. If she were being fanciful, she'd say he liked it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleDidTheyKnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDidTheyKnow/gifts).



> For LittleDidTheyKnow/murdocklovespage in the Karedevil Squad Secret Santa! Happy Karedevil Holidays, I hope you enjoy this! I took "AU" from your list of preferences and ran with it; you may spot a couple of nods to the holiday prompts, too :)
> 
> A million billion thanks to Elliceluella for the handholding, and Capriccio for the last-minute eyes on this thing! <3

It was amazing, Karen thought, how comfortable she'd become in this place in a short length of time. She’d first stepped through the doors of the Nelson & Murdock Sandwich Bar just two short weeks ago, yet here she was, tucked into a snug little booth and sharing a ridiculously oversized turkey avocado club with the owners well past closing time.

They’d turned the lights down low, and hunkered down in their seats so no passers-by would see them through the window and start banging on the door. “Because we’re just that popular?” the Murdock half of the team had asked, raising his eyebrows high over the rims of his dark glasses. 

“Dude, you know we are,” the Nelson half had replied cheerfully, before shoving such a large piece of sandwich into his mouth that Karen found herself mentally reviewing the steps of the Heimlich maneuver.

Everything about the restaurant felt cozy and warm, from the wood-paneled walls, to the cherry red cushions on the stools lined up along the namesake bar, to the Christmas decorations wedged enthusiastically into every available space. Strands of garland decked the windows and the door, an artificial tree leaned at a perilous angle near the far end of the bar (Karen winced every time Matt came around the corner without his cane, then chided herself for wincing), and the walls were plastered with paper snowflakes. (“My little cousins made them,” Foggy’d said when Karen had asked. “We wanted to hang them from the ceiling, winter wonderland-style, but fire inspectors have no sense of whimsy.”)

There was nothing calculated about it. Nothing deliberate. The place hadn't been designed to feel homey, it simply _was_ , and that was all down to the two men who sat across from her now.

Perhaps Karen understood that better than most. She'd spent half her life in a small-town diner brimming with life, and half in one that was a dried-up, hollow husk. It had nothing to do with the four walls surrounding her; those hadn't changed at all. It was the rest of her world that had.

“So,” Karen said, propping her chin on her hand. “You two met in college?”

“Yep!” Foggy beamed at her. She’d noticed he did that a lot. “Roomies from day one. Neither time, nor tide, nor ungodly snoring -”

“That was him, by the way,” Matt interjected, his own smile peeking out slow and sweet as a sunrise. Something else Karen had noticed was that she really, really liked it when he smiled.

“- nor _obsessive neatness_ -

“Guilty,” Matt said. “Guilty, and unashamed.”

“- could render us asunder,” Foggy concluded triumphantly, and Karen laughed out loud.

“The two of you in culinary school,” she said. “I can only imagine.”

“Wow. No. Sorry, we’ve placed you under a terrible misapprehension! Good thing you’ve only eaten, what, half a dozen meals with us, hopefully it won’t come as too much of a shock to the system…. No, neither of us have earned degrees that actually qualify us to cook, handle, or honestly? Be in the same _room_ as food.” As Foggy spoke, Matt shook his head in mock contrition. Karen pressed her hand to her mouth to try and hold her laughter in.

“But don’t worry, I got my MBA at Columbia, so I’m completely over-qualified to _sell_ it to you. And Matthew here got his Master’s in religious studies, so he can… hmm. Do you bless the bread back there, Matthew, while you’re baking it?”

“No. I’m usually too busy asking God to grant me patience with you.”

“Ah,” Foggy said, raising a finger, “so you admit it's been prayed over. Thank you, Matthew. Karen, does that ease your mind?”

“Trust me, Foggy, my mind didn’t need easing,” she said, and took a bite of sandwich to prove it. Everything she’d eaten at Nelson & Murdock so far had been delicious, right down to the last crumb, and their prices were so reasonable that it made the food taste all the better. This sandwich was no exception: Matt's sourdough bread was light and fresh, the shaved turkey had just the right hint of smoke, and sweet red cherry peppers, fresh avocado slices, and a drizzle of chili aioli topped it all off perfectly. But there _was_ something Karen couldn’t get off her mind, a question she couldn’t hold back. “Are you a pastor or something on the side, Matt?”

He chuckled, low and deep. “No. I did think about the priesthood for a while -”

“That was before our late bloomer finally bloomed,” Foggy said indulgently.

“And I thought about mission work, but -” he shrugged. “This is my home. I love the city too much to leave it.”

Foggy laughed. “He’s not lying. I remember trying to take him to Atlantic City after graduation. He faked a migraine to get out of it.”

“I _had_ a migraine!”

“Yeah buddy. I'm sure you did. I'm giving you a disbelieving look, by the way.”

“Never could’ve guessed.” Matt turned his face toward Karen. “We’re three feet away from the room he spent his entire childhood in,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Not sure he has any room to to talk.”

Behind Matt was the door that led through to Nelson's Meats, the butcher shop run by Foggy’s dad - now co-run by his brother - that had started it all. During the day, customers moved freely between the two shops, eating lunch with Matt and Foggy, then taking home loaves of bread and meat by the pound to try and re-create the experience at home. It couldn't be done, of course. Karen had tried, sitting cross-legged on her bed, eating a ham on rye in front of her ancient tv. It hadn't tasted the same. It hadn't _felt_ the same. She’d never wanted to try again.

She didn't want to go home, even though it was past time she did, past time she let these men make it home to their own beds. They would stay up with her all night if she was selfish enough to let them.

“Now there's a real culinary school for you,” Foggy said. “I learned everything I needed to know at my dad’s knee. And over it, sometimes.” He tipped his head to the side, reminiscing. “Little Foggy like to steal ham and hoard it in his room like a pork-loving squirrel. Needless to say, Dad did _not_ take that as the compliment on the quality of his work that he should have.”

“And what were Little Foggy’s favorite places for hiding ham?” Karen asked, grinning, caught up in the mental image of a blond haired, round cheeked, happy little child quietly making off with slice after slice of deli meat.

“Well, if they were anything like the places College Foggy used to keep his pot…” Matt said, prompting flailing hands and exaggerated shushing noises from Foggy.

One more story couldn't hurt a thing. One more story, and then she'd go home, and maybe even have sweet dreams.

::

Scent first. Karen flooded Matt’s senses whenever she arrived at the restaurant, but it always started with scent: sweet, warm vanilla over traces of soothing lavender. Then sound, the crisp click of her heels on their hardwood floor, and the light, quick, slightly over-caffeinated beat of her heart.

Back in the kitchen, up to his elbows in a bowl of triple chocolate muffin batter, Matt listened as Karen placed her order with Foggy. A ham and swiss, a bottle of water, and a side of Theo Nelson's famous potato salad. She didn't usually come in this early, before the lunch rush began; in fact, she normally didn't show up until the day was winding down.

Half expecting Karen to end her order with the words “to go”, Matt felt his lips curve up when instead he heard her heels clicking their way towards her usual corner booth. He poured semisweet chocolate chips into the batter - the milk and dark chocolate chips were already in - and stirred. Out at her booth, Karen unshouldered a heavy bag, dropping it onto the table; a few seconds later, her laptop whirred to life.

Sounded like she was settling in.

Felt like Matt was smiling.

Across the kitchen, a timer dinged. Moving quickly, Matt pulled four trays of muffins out of the oven, spooned the next batch into the muffin tins, and popped them in. Then he went out to join Foggy behind the counter.

“Sorry I'm so behind,” he said, sliding fresh-baked muffins into the empty “Sweet Treat of the Day” section of the display case. “Clumsy this morning. Dropped some stuff, had to scrap a batch.”

It was more that a cut in his side had opened up when he’d lifted a sack of flour, and he’d had to take a time out and perform a few stitches. Having a well-stocked first aid kit in a professional kitchen wasn't an unusual thing, but most cooks got their knife wounds from slicing, dicing, or chopping. Matt had gotten this one stopping a break-in at a bodega at 2 a.m.

“It's okay, buddy. Think some folks are definitely ready to indulge their sweet tooth, though.”

Matt heard murmuring. Chairs scraping back. People getting to their feet. A tide of muffin-lovers swelled towards the register, and Matt tilted his head, filtering through the static. He didn't think Karen had even looked up.

“Maybe you should take one to the very back table. Regular customer. Lost in their own little world. I know they'd appreciate it.”

“It's not that old guy who always wants to pray for healing for my afflicted eyes, is it?”

“Would I do that to you, Murdock?”

“Yes?”

“Be gone with you. I'm shooing you with my hands.” And he actually was. “Let me serve meat.”

Laughing, Matt put a muffin and a napkin on a plate and headed for Karen's table, skimming his left hand over the backs of empty chairs as he walked. She was typing, the keys clicking rapidly under her fingers as if racing to keep up with her thoughts.

Matt cleared his throat. “Did someone at this table order a muffin?”

“No - Matt! Hey. Um, it's Karen. No, I didn't order it, but it looks amazing, I would definitely eat it?” 

“Then it's yours.” He fumbled around on the table with his free hand for a moment to indicate he was searching for a clear space, then set the plate down. Matt waved her thanks away, saying, “Foggy sent me back here with it, so you'll have to thank him. And, ah - I knew it was you. As soon as you spoke, I mean. I know your voice.”

“Oh.” 

“I like hearing it,” Matt said plainly, encouraged by the gentle heat rising in her skin. He paused. “Have I been missing out? Do you come for lunch often?”

“Oh! No. First time. I took a half day, I had some... errands to do this morning.” Her pulse ticked up on the word errands: interesting. “Figured I'd grab a bite before facing whatever’s waiting on my desk.”

And take advantage of their free wifi for something she couldn't - or knew she shouldn't - do at the office? Karen was typing again at that very moment. She often had her laptop with her, and always sat in the last booth with her back to the wall, where no one could peek over her shoulder. She tended to close the lid the second Foggy drew near, but never bothered when it was just Matt.

It was all interesting.

“I better go, I've got more muffins in the oven,” Matt said. “I'll let you get back to your lunch.”

“Can't let anything happen to those, there'd be a riot.”

Matt grinned. “See you later?”

“You bet.”

The certainty in her voice made him smile. He was starting to realize that a lot of things about her did. Matt carried that knowledge with him, sweet as sugar, as he got back to work.

::

Two visits in one day probably made her seem eager. So what? Karen knew what she was: a moth to Matt and Foggy’s flame. By now, they probably knew it, too. But life was a choice between evils, and after the day she’d had and the things she’d seen, Karen would take being a moth over anything else this city had to offer.

“Karen!”

The warmth of Foggy’s greeting went a long way towards silencing any uncertainties still lingering. She grinned in return. “Hey, Foggy. Long time no see. What's the special tonight?”

“Beef brisket with kale pesto slaw on Matt's Irish cheddar sourdough. Toasted. We’re talking melty cheesy goodness in every bite.” 

“Holy shit, that sounds good. Sign me up.”

“You got it! I mentioned the kale, right? This is totally health food.”

“I'm convinced,” Karen assured him. The only trouble, she realized after she settled down in her booth, was that the sandwich was far too messy for her to get any work done in between bites. But with her hands full, she had time to think, and she had so much to think about. Like money changing hands, obscene amounts of it. And the places it might be going, and the kind of things it might be funding.

The innocent people getting screwed in the process.

She’d read about the derelict apartments in the comments of an online message board. That morning, when the renovation crew _should_ have been on site, she’d gone to see for herself. Purposefully broken water lines, clearly hit with a sledge hammer. Doors broken off the hinges. Holes in drywall with fiberglass insulation spilling out. Rent-controlled apartments suddenly made unlivable due to quote-unquote scheduled renovation work, and no “Midtown Renovations” anywhere to be seen.

The company wasn’t listed with the Better Business Bureau. It didn’t have a Facebook. It was very obviously a front, but for who? Was it Karen’s own employer, the newest and largest construction company on the West Side, whose hands were, she happened to know, plenty dirty in other respects?

Karen thought about the things the world needed to know, and the things she needed to _say_. After savoring the last delicious bite of her sandwich and telling Foggy how insanely good it was, she got herself a cup of coffee and got to work. 

It was more than an hour later when Karen glanced up from Twitter in time to catch a changing of the guard behind the counter. “First date with Marci in two months. Wish me luck, buddy,” Foggy was saying, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

Matt laughed. “You don’t need luck. Marci has luck in palm of her hand.”

“Truth.” Still fussing with his scarf, Foggy called, “I'm leaving you in Matt’s capable hands, Page!”

She shot him a thumbs up. “I feel safer already!” Karen called back, and was rewarded a second later by the beautiful smile Matt aimed in her direction.

When her coffee cup was down to the dregs, and the restaurant was nearly empty, Karen grabbed her things and relocated to one of the cherry red bar stools close to the register. Matt was sitting behind it, one ear bud in his ear, listening to something on his phone; an audiobook, maybe. There was a small sign propped on the register that she’d never seen when Foggy was manning it - “Cards Preferred.”

“Do people try and cheat you with cash?” Karen asked curiously. “Sorry!” she added, as he yanked the bud out of his ear. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Stupid question anyway, of course people do, they’re assholes.”

Thankfully, Matt laughed. “I like to think I can tell when people are trying to put one over on me. But it’s not really a big deal, I have an app for identifying currency.” He tapped his phone. “Cards just mean I can skip a step.”

“I’m all for skipping steps.” Karen cringed. She sounded inane. 

“Are you done working?” Matt asked abruptly. “I mean - Foggy said - before he left - that’s what you were doing. Working.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I guess I am. Getting late, right?”

“Very.” He paused, tilting his head. “Can I ask what keeps you so busy?”

“Just - stuff for the job, you know. I work for Union Allied, it’s a huge company, when there's a big project they keep us jumping so much during the day that we can't get everything done.”

“Of course. Well, I hope they pay you overtime.”

“Ha. Yeah. Be nice if they found some room in the bottom line for that.” Karen fidgeted with her coffee cup, lifting it to her mouth before remembering there was nothing left in it. “Okay if I get myself a refill?” The warming plates for the coffee pots were closer to her perch at the bar than to Matt's seat at the register; that was the rational excuse. The one that didn't have anything to do with the illusion she'd been crafting, where they weren't restaurant owner and customer, but two people just choosing to pass the time on a cold winter’s evening together.

“I'll get it for you,” he said at once. 

“No, don't do that, it's after hours!” She checked her watch. “Or close to it. I guess I probably shouldn't have any more tonight, anyway, as late as it is.” 

“What if I get you something else? Like tea, or cocoa? I'll have some too,” Matt added quickly, as if sensing the “no” on her lips.

“In that case, yeah. Cocoa would be nice.” 

The opening strains of “Silent Night” fell from speakers perched on a shelf. It was a plain, stripped-down version, just piano and soft guitar, and even though it didn't stir any particularly religious feelings in Karen, the simplicity of it caught at her. Maybe because it matched the moment: Matt quietly, comfortably, pulling out fresh mugs, scooping out cocoa, steaming the milk. 

Without Foggy around to catch her at it, she couldn't help but watch him openly. Not out of fascination with the way Matt navigated the world without sight, although in the privacy of her own mind, Karen could admit to a certain amount of that. But no, it was all much simpler and more basic: she couldn't look away from Matt's big, broad hands, unless it was to gaze at the strong line of his jaw. Or the soft curve of his lips.

Karen still didn't have a handle on how much of whatever Foggy said at any given moment was true and how much was shittalk, but she knew one thing for sure: she'd been in trouble from the moment he mentioned Matt giving up a religious life to _bloom_. All right, maybe she'd been in trouble even before then - it wasn't like she hadn’t noticed those hands or that mouth already - but that was the moment her mind seized onto all the implications of Matt Murdock blooming, and _ran_.

Because she was paying such careful attention, Karen saw it all. The moment Matt turned away from the milk steamer, a quick move that was apparently _too_ quick, because his brow furrowed in sudden pain, and his hand jerked towards his side. Except both hands held brimming mugs of cocoa, and in a matter of seconds, the countertop was drenched and Karen’s shirt was splattered.

“Shit, Karen, I'm so sorry. _So_ sorry. Let - let me get you a cold washcloth -”

“Don't worry, it's not that bad, I promise,” Karen said, accepting the cloth he offered and dabbing at the side of her neck. “I didn't get that much on me, and it wasn't that hot.”

Matt winced. “I ruined your shirt, didn't I.”

“Nothing a trip through the washing machine won't cure,” she promised. “Really, don’t worry about it. I've worked in food service, I spilled _so many_ things, and I didn't even have - um.” Karen's mouth snapped shut. _An excuse_ , she’d been about to say, meaning whatever had caused that involuntary, pained reaction; he would no doubt have thought she meant his blindness.

Might be thinking it right now. _Shit_.

“Listen,” Matt said into the sudden, awkward quiet. “I have a gym bag back in the kitchen. Can I get you a t-shirt? Clean, I swear.”

“Ah, yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”

At first she hovered in the kitchen doorway, unsure as to whether or not she was supposed to follow him in. When he noticed - and Karen was surprised at how quickly that happened; maybe he'd been listening for her footsteps? - Matt said, “Karen? Come in, if you want. My locker’s back here.”

The kitchen was small for a restaurant kitchen, and aggressively organized. Foggy’s grill and sandwich press were out behind the bar, so this was truly Matt's world. Braille labels hung from boxes, bags, and jars; his salt shaker had one rubber band wrapped around it, his pepper mill two.

“What if a customer comes in?” Karen asked, struck by the thought. 

He waved it away. “I'll hear the bell.”

Matt's locker was a storage cabinet tucked near the fire exit. He reached into a duffel bag and pulled out out a gray t-shirt and hoodie. “The shirt’s fresh from the laundry,” he said. “The sweatshirt is - I don't know. See what you think?”

The tee was well-worn, and almost freakishly soft. Karen draped it over the crook of her elbow, then held the hoodie up to her nose and gave it a theatrical sniff. “I guess -” she sniffed again - “it'll do,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She thought he could probably hear her grin on her voice; one broke across his face to match it. 

Karen inhaled again, quietly. This time it wasn't for show, but for her. Matt had worn the hoodie on the way to the gym, she speculated, but not after a workout; it was layered with a pleasant warm, deep spiciness. _Him_.

“Maybe I'll go wash off a little more,” she said. “Cocoa kinda soaked through. Is that a restroom over there?” She pointed to a doorway over near a storage unit, then immediately felt like an idiot.

Didn't seem to faze Matt, though. “Yes. Help yourself. Um, not sure if the lights are actually working? I think they go in and out. Foggy curses a lot.”

She laughed. “Foggy? Never.”

It was hard not to be fanciful when she slipped on Matt's hoodie and felt him all around her. His scent settled over her; with it came waves of calm and safety that she'd rarely felt since moving to Hell’s Kitchen. And - no point in denying it - something more: a new appreciation to take its place next to those for his hands, his lips. 

He was right: the light over the sink was flaky, buzzing in and out. But there was a moment when she looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in his clothes, and found herself smiling.

When she came out of the bathroom, there was a smile on Matt's face too. His head lifted, as if he were catching a whiff of something in the air; if she were still being fanciful, Karen would say he was taking in the scent of her all wrapped up in his clothes. If she were being fanciful, she'd say he liked it.


	2. Chapter 2

With things that were important, things that _mattered_ , Matt would always prefer to get his information from primary sources. He couldn't read the heartbeat of a newspaper, or a blog, or a Twitter feed. But a guy who'd been backed into a corner, who'd taken a few blows and was desperate not to take any more; that was truth wrapped up in a body, in pulse and respiration and scent. That was a book Matt could read like no one else.

Bad things were happening in Hell’s Kitchen. Bad things had _been_ happening in Hell’s Kitchen for a long, long time, but lately it seemed like the tide of misery and evil had grown tremendously strong, battering the streets by night and showing no signs of reaching an ebb.

The air was brutally cold that night, and from Matt’s perch on a warehouse roof near the Hudson, the wind occasionally brought with it stinging pellets of ice. But it was where he needed to be. He had it on good authority (a man curled into himself in surrender, begging Matt to _stop_ ) that in the next several hours, one of the shipping containers below would be loaded with people, gagged and bound and headed for lives of sex slavery halfway around the world.

Except that wasn’t going to happen. Because Matt wasn’t going to let it.

He'd told Karen that he'd considered mission work, but ultimately abandoned the idea because he couldn't imagine leaving Hell’s Kitchen. That was as true as it was false. The person he'd been trying to be had considered it: building hospitals, building schools, getting food to people who would otherwise have none. A good Catholic boy, saving the world in the daylight. 

Matt hadn't put a name to what he actually was, but he knew he wasn't that. His mission work involved blood, and fear, and it took place in the dark.

Thinking of Karen brought a smile to his face, even here with his head covered, his hands wrapped, and his body poised for a fight. Thoughts of him caused reactions in Karen, too; on the heels of his accident with the cocoa earlier that evening, that had become crystal clear. Pulse. Respiration. Scent.

Except those were thoughts of Matt the good Catholic baker that she’d had. She didn't know the man lying in wait on a roof.

He cocked his head. Movement down below - a van. Two guys in the cab. Four women tied up in the back. 

Matt launched himself off the roof, wearing a very different smile, and set about making things right.

::

The empty “Sweet Treat of the Day” section in the bakery case wasn’t necessarily a sign that something was amiss, because Matt’s treats had been known to sell out quickly, but it still gave Karen pause. By the time Foggy brought her sandwich to the table with a well-deserved flourish - the tender steak, shaved Parmigiano, and roasted cherry tomato jam all looked worthy of applause - there’d been no hint of activity back in Matt’s kitchen. She put off her question until after her first bite, which was so good that she immediately took a second, while Foggy stood beside her table and beamed.

Finally, Karen asked, “Is it Matt’s turn for a night off?”

She hoped that was all there was to it: tit for tat, Matt’s turn now. Last night, their quiet moment of - of connection, of _something_ , had ended when the shop bell rang and a customer ordered a last minute Reuben. The thought of Matt not coming in the very next day left her feeling unsettled and cold.

She had his clothes in her bag. Karen didn't want to give them to Foggy. Didn’t really want to tell him a single thing about the night before: putting words to any of it could only make things feel smaller and less precious.

It had certainly felt precious at the time.

Meanwhile, Foggy was shaking his head. “Sick day. Although now that you mention it, maybe he _is_ playing hooky to give me a taste of my own medicine. Hmm.”

“You don't really think that. I can tell.”

“He sounded pretty rough on the phone this morning. But then again, he always sounds rough in the morning, so…. “ Foggy shrugged, spreading his hands. “Matt Murdock. Your guess is as good as mine.”

The way Matt had clutched his side last night…. Appendicitis would be on the right side, wouldn't it? Karen was fairly certain he’d grabbed his left, so at least it wasn't that. Unless she was wrong? She cast her mind back, trying to reconstruct the mental image - 

“Hey, don't look so worried!” Foggy said quickly. “He'll be fine. Matt's tough as nails. He'll be here tomorrow with bells on. Well, not with actual bells, he kinda hates excessive jingling, but you get me.”

Karen grinned, both because it was expected and because, once again, Foggy made it impossible not to smile. “You have one of those bell necklaces, don’t you.”

“And I’d be wearing it right now if someone had called _before_ I left home this morning.” Apparently, Foggy felt the place was quiet enough that he could abandon the counter for a little while; he slid into the booth across from her and said, “Any hopes I had for another date night were dashed earlier, anyway. Did you see the uproar on Twitter?”

Neutral face, Karen, she told herself. Pleasantly interested. “There was an uproar?”

“Oh yeah. Well, it’s local, so I guess maybe more of a… kerfluffe? But yeah, you know that blogger? OpenBook?” Foggy tapped at his phone, then turned it around to display a very familiar tweet:

> Hey, #HellsKitchen. Got any pics of work done by #MidtownRenovations? I’ll go first.

“And the pictures are _terrible_ , man. Like, I have cousins in construction, I’ve worked job sites, there’s no way these are just amateur mistakes. People are saying it’s probably not a legit company, and we’re talking rent-controlled apartments, so the landlord who hired them is looking preeeetty fishy right now. And he’s represented by Marci’s law firm, so I’m about a thousand percent certain that he is.”

“You don’t think much of the people she works for?”

“Hell no, she’s better than all of them. I tell her that, but she just talks about rungs and ladders, and…” Foggy shrugged. “I went to business school. I get it.”

 _Pleasantly interested._ “So, um, the landlord’s lawyering up?”

“Yeah. Meaning Marci’ll be working late. Getting his defense in place - they figure it’s only a matter of time before some prosecutors see a case in that thread and get to work for the tenants. I just hope for the tenants’ sake they pick good ones.”

“Yeah.” Karen swallowed around a sudden burst of pride. “Me too.”

A fresh wave of customers came in, and Foggy got back to work. Karen did the same, switching on one of her burner phones and using it as a hotspot before launching the internet. Just one of her standard precautions; firing up a proxy server was another. Better to be safe than sorry, the adage went, and while none of what Karen was doing was particularly _safe_ , she planned on running from _sorry_ as long as she could.

There was a thumb drive hidden behind a ceiling tile in her bathroom. On it was a copy of a file that had turned up in her work email one day, a file that Karen had clearly never been meant to see. When she’d asked her boss about it, oh-so-innocently, he’d laughed it off; she’d let him, heart pounding, and never mentioned it again.

Karen was no expert, but she was pretty sure what she’d been looking at was evidence of money laundering, and that her boss’ hands were filthy. How many other people were in it with him? And how many of the hundreds of subcontractors that worked for the company were actual, reputable businesses, as opposed to hollow shells? Karen had systematically acquired as many subcontractors’ names as she could, and was working her way down the list, digging as deep on the internet as she could go.

So far, things weren’t looking good for Union Allied.

When the last of Foggy’s customers had bundled up to head out into the cold, Karen packed up her laptop and went to talk to Foggy, who was wiping down the bar. “No word from Matt, huh?”

He shook his head. “Nada.”

“You gonna go by there after you close up here?”

“Eh… I don’t want to seem smothering. He hates smothering.”

“But you really want to smother, don't you.”

“ _So_ bad. I can't help it, it's in my genes! And I know I give him shit about fake migraines or whatever, but I think, you know, he really does get bad headaches sometimes. Plus, he doesn’t like to admit it, but he falls.” Foggy frowned. “I mean, you've probably seen some of the bruises.”

“Yeah,” Karen said slowly. Was that it? Had Matt fallen, and injured his side? Could he have fallen again? The thought was enough to push Karen past any reservations she might have had and say, “What if - what if I went with you? You could blame it on me.”

“Page, that's brilliant! Hot girl smothering is one of the few kinds of smothering he's likely to accept with good grace.”

“Um, thanks, I guess?”

“Oh please.” Foggy waved a hand. “You know you're hot.”

“How would Matt, I mean -” she grimaced. “Never mind, forget that, never mind.”

“Believe me, he knows,” Foggy said, with a certainty that made Karen’s face heat. “I don't know how he knows, but he does. Hot people radar is Matt’s fifth sense.”

Since Karen knew a little something about closing a restaurant for the night, she pitched in, cleaning the grill and sweeping the floor while Foggy closed out the register. With the Christmas tree unplugged, the lights out, and the door locked, they set out for Matt’s place, walking quickly through the dark streets to try and keep from freezing. 

“Forgot to mention, it’s a walk-up,” Foggy said. “Six flights. No backing out now.” Karen rammed his shoulder gently; when he yelped, she laughed, their voices ringing out together into the cold, clear night.

Banging on Matt’s door got them nowhere. Foggy tried first, then gestured for Karen to give it a shot, but if any part of her had hoped that maybe Matt would come to the door when he realized she was there too, it was mistaken. “All right, way I see it, there are three choices,” Foggy said. “One, he’s in there and asleep. Two, he’s just waiting us out. Three, he’s out at Duane Reade stocking up on Excedrin migraine.”

“Hm.” There were other, worse options, but if Foggy wasn’t going to mention them, Karen wouldn’t either. “Do you have a key?”

“No. I know a way in - roof access door with a shitty lock - but breaking and entering is _definitely_ the kind of smothering that would piss him off.”

“Yeah…. One more try?”

They combined their efforts this time, shouting Matt’s name together and hammering simultaneously with their fists. An old lady popped out from a neighboring apartment, yelled at them to shut up, then disappeared back inside; Karen called, “Sorry!”, while Foggy gave Matt’s door a couple of softer whacks. 

A sudden buzzing from Foggy’s pocket startled them both. Pulling out his phone, Foggy said, “He lives! Got a text. It says, _God, you’re loud_.”

Karen laughed. “Yeah, because we had to be.”

“Yeah.” Foggy frowned. “We did. And if Matt’s texting instead of calling, he’s trying to hide something. How shitty he sounds, probably.” Putting his ear to the door, Foggy called, “Can we get you anything, buddy?”

“Do you hear anything in there?” Karen whispered.

Foggy held up a hand, listening. “No… he uses speech to text, so I thought maybe… but really, there’s no reason he’d be talking loudly enough for that. Especially if he’s in bed. Oh, here we go: _No. I’m fine. See you tomorrow promise._

Out of curiosity, Karen pressed her ear to the door too. She didn’t know what she expected, but was startled by just how empty the place sounded; not a cough, not a rustle, not a sigh, only dead, echoing silence.

She hadn't decided how to mention it to Foggy, or indeed, whether she should - why worry him if she was just being fanciful again? - when Foggy suddenly clapped his hands briskly and said, “Who's in the mood for cheap alcohol?”

The bar he took her to was impressively terrible, and they split a bottle of something that no doubt was in violation of numerous health codes. Karen was on her second dubious glass when her phone buzzed; it was a news alert, reporting a sighting of the man in the black mask, who'd disappeared from the scene after leaving three would-be rapists beaten to a pulp.

When Foggy made a curious noise, Karen turned her phone to display the post, and was surprised at the sour look that stole over his face. “You don't think much of the man in the mask?”

He shook his head. “Nut job,” he said decisively. “I mean, he's the hero in that story, don't get me wrong, but that's not the way we should be doing things, you know?”

“But the ways we should be doing things aren't working. That's the point.” Sometimes the only way to get things done was to take matters into your own hands. God knew Karen understood that: every second of every day since her mother’s diagnosis had taught her little else. 

And there were so many other stories about the man in black, particularly once you looked beyond the official news outlets. Like the one she'd read that morning, in a post by a woman who said he'd saved her and several others from traffickers. He’d apparently taken some big hits in that fight; for his own sake, not just the city's, Karen was glad to hear he was back out there tonight. 

Foggy sighed. “Yeah. I know. I have a friend in the NYPD - well, frenemy, his mother gave me the last slice of his birthday cake the day he turned five, that kind of thing leaves a mark on a man… anyway, he looks constipated every time mask guy comes up, but I’m not sure he's actually in a hurry to catch him, either.”

“Maybe he just looks constipated because you're around,” Karen suggested. “Last piece of a five year old's birthday cake. Has anyone ever told you you're a monster?”

“Hey, I was five too!” Foggy protested. He poured them both another splash of dubious alcohol before launching into a dissertation on the lifetime of wrongs perpetrated on him by Brett, the frenemy cop.

Karen settled back in her chair, making herself nice and comfortable. Yes, she still missed Matt's presence; she knew Foggy did too, and if this was how he wanted to bury his concern for Matt, under story after story, she was happy to be his audience. But not only to return the favor for all the nights she’d been spared from being alone, but because being with Foggy was precious too, and she would store up every moment, drop by precious drop.

::

Matt hadn’t intended to miss work. But he’d woken up late to find his body screaming that it had been run over by a truck (it hadn’t - but he _had_ thrown it out of a moving van), and rushing through his morning routine to get in on time had proven impossible. He’d known, too, that rushing through pounding and kneading dough to get fresh loaves in the oven would’ve been equally impossible, especially with Foggy’s heartbeat as a worried witness. So Matt had made a call to Foggy, who’d reassured him that they had enough day-old bread to get by, then thrown himself into a day of stretching and meditation, determined to be firing on all cylinders by nightfall.

Easier said than done, considering how hard it was not to think about how he’d left Foggy in the lurch that day, working alone and serving sandwiches with bread that wasn’t up to their usual standard. Other things popped unbidden into his head, too, like the small, insistent voice that kept wondering if Karen would come in that evening, and whether she would notice his absence, and whether she would care.

Hours later, Matt had been floored to hear her voice along with Foggy’s outside of his apartment door. Standing on a freezing rooftop several blocks away, he'd felt strangely warm; he'd wished for a moment that he was actually inside, that he could've opened the door wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, that he could've invited them in.

The following evening, Matt tried to make it up to Foggy by sending him packing around six o’clock. “We both know you have Christmas shopping left to do, Fog,” he said, and Foggy agreed with a wrenching groan worthy of his theatre camp days.

“So many aunts, so little time,” Foggy said, and Matt wished him luck and waved him out the door.

It meant Matt was behind the register when the shop bell jingled and Karen came in, filling the air with lavender and vanilla sweetness. Ducking his head, he schooled his face, hoping the smile in his heart hadn’t actually made it to his lips. He had to keep his wits. Let her speak before he let any recognition show.

“Hey Matt, are you feeling better?”

“Hey, um, much better, thanks.” And there the smile was, bursting across his face, all the more stronger for being held back. “Sorry - sorry about not inviting you guys in last night, I just, ah -”

“No, please, I'm sorry, that was - we shouldn’t have -”

“No -”

“Making all that noise -”

“I wish I could've let you in,” Matt said, and was quietly delighted to hear Karen's heart trip in her chest.

She ordered the evening special, a pressed Italian sandwich, and to Matt's surprise, took a seat at the bar rather than her usual booth. It meant he got to talk to her while he prepared her food, and contentment crept over him, moment by moment. If Karen ever came to his apartment again, not only would he let her in, he'd cook for her. Something rich and hearty, the kind of thing that fed a person body and soul.

They talked about where to find the best slice of pizza in New York, and Foggy's ridiculous feud with Brett, and the merits of the laundromat on 42nd versus the one on 38th. But something was wrong, Matt realized; there was a dark, abstracted current to Karen's voice, and it wasn't going away.

When he asked if something was bothering her (“I told you, I know your voice”), Karen first shook her head no, then sighed and nodded yes, then finally, as Matt continued to wait with an air of expectation on his face, said, “Ah, yeah. Just something that happened at work today. Can't seem to stop replaying it in my head, you know?”

“Tell me,” Matt said immediately. “It'll help.”

“Okay.” Karen ducked her head, worrying her knuckles, then lifted her face again. “This guy came to see my boss today. He was a real asshole, when I told him he didn't have an appointment, he said he didn't need one in this, God, _so_ smug voice, and when I asked his name, he said, ‘Just tell your boss the representative from Confederated Global is here. That's all he needs to know.’. And when I got up to do it, he said, ‘Good girl,’ and I… I didn't say a damn thing, because I like paying my rent.”

Matt's jaw clenched.

“But when he left… that’s what I can't stop thinking about. When he left, he turned in the doorway and said, ‘Goodbye, Karen Page,’ and it was…” She laughed bitterly. “When I say it out loud, it sounds like nothing, but being there… I can't describe it.”

She didn't have to. Matt knew what it was from the pounding of her heart, the shiver in her frame, the tremble in her voice. “It was a threat.”

“Felt like one. Yeah.”

His nails were biting his palms, his fingers suddenly curling into fists. Matt shoved them down at his sides. “Describe him to me,” he heard himself say through the blood rushing in his ears. “Tell me everything you can remember. Height, build, voice. Everything.”

It might have sounded strange for him to ask about smell, but he didn’t need to. Now that Matt knew to look for it, the signs were unmistakable; traces of sandalwood and musk caught in Karen’s hair and clothes from exposure to an expensive cologne that she didn’t normally encounter during a day at the office. One that was burned in his memory, now. He’d know it anywhere.

A couple staggered in, buried under armloads of shopping bags, and Matt took their orders, barely listening to a word they said. He would keep Karen safe. He _would_. That wasn’t just a promise; it rose straight from his heart to the heavens, a solemn vow. 

Wasn’t that the point of him? If God hadn’t made him for moments like this, what had He made Matt _for_?

“Karen,” he said, while his hands stayed steadily busy, slathering spicy mustard on bread. “Please stay through closing tonight. Let me walk you home.”

“Thanks,” she said. “That would be - really nice.”

When the time came, Matt locked the door and turned off most of the lights, leaving a few on near the rear of the shop for Karen's sake. “There’s just a few things I need to do before we can go,” he said. 

“Oh please, don't rush. I can help? I helped Foggy last night.”

The wave of jealousy that swept over Matt at that was ridiculous, and stronger than he’d ever like to admit. He cleared his throat to banish it. “Well,” he said, “guess we'll just have to see which team does it better, huh?”

It was nice, working with Karen. Cleaning the grill while she swept the floor; loading the dishwasher while she stacked veggies and cheeses in the walk-in refrigerator. Matt was wiping down his work station in the kitchen when she asked, “I know Foggy was basically born with a ham in his hand, but how'd you get into baking?”

Matt swept crumbs into the trash can before answering. “I helped in the kitchen a lot when I was a kid, both before and after,” he indicated his glasses, “so it was second nature.” His dad's warm, tiny kitchen, and the echoing, cold room at the orphanage had been very different places, but ones where things operated under rules he understood. “Then I went off to college, and the dining hall food was _terrible_. I wasn't eating much -” Why was he telling her that? It wasn't necessary, he could've skipped it, and yet he was saying it anyway - “So Foggy decided we should start cooking in the kitchen on our floor on weekends. And the baking -”

He paused, running a thumb over his knuckles. “I have to use my hands. Turns out that's just - that's just who I am. Spending time every day kneading and shaping dough - it helps.”

“Well, you're really good at it,” Karen said, and he smiled in thanks. 

When it began, it began with sound. Footsteps, heavy ones, in the street behind the restaurant. Two men, wearing boots, each with a knife strapped above one ankle, tipping their balance ever so slightly.

They stopped outside the back door.

“Karen,” Matt whispered. “Go into the front room. Kill the rest of the lights. Hide under the bar.”

“What?”

“ _Now_ ,” Matt said, already heading for his locker, and the black mask buried in a small pocket inside his gym bag.

_You handle the mark. I’ll take care of the blind guy._

Hired thugs. No question. If they were expecting an easy time out of a blind man and a woman in a pencil skirt and heels, then they were about to find themselves sorely mistaken. After breaking the lock on the back door, the first thing they tried to do was switch on the lights; too bad, Matt had already flipped the breaker. Keeping them busy in the kitchen, away from Karen, was his number one priority: he launched himself at them immediately, striking the smaller guy’s neck and digging into his windpipe while nailing the larger with a side kick.

He was just getting started, but so were they, and they were here to kill.

So many weapons in a kitchen. Matt relieved the thugs of the knives they came in with soon enough, but they just found more; he concentrated on their hands after that, breaking wrists and popping fingers when he could. Karen’s breathing rang in his ears, harsh and terrified, but she was staying put in the other room, thank God. Matt got one of the assholes to stay down, _finally_ , by wielding a hit to the back of his knees with a cast iron skillet, then following it up with a kick to the head; for his trouble, Matt found himself being thrown into the stainless steel refrigerator door by the bigger asshole, who, while Matt was still reeling, made it out of the kitchen and into the front room.

_Karen._

By the time Matt caught up, the thug had his arm around Karen's neck and a knife at her throat. A roar built up in Matt's chest, an anthem of absolute rage, and he charged forward, only to hear the guy let loose a curdling, high-pitched scream.

Karen had her fingers buried in his eye sockets, and was digging in with all her might.

The thug let go. Matt kicked the knife out of the guy’s hand, let the roar explode from his chest, and barreled into him, sending him flying over the counter and right into the Christmas tree Foggy and his army of little cousins had spent the day after Thanksgiving decorating. Matt hurdled the counter, pivoting into a spinning kick that knocked the asshole down the second he started to rise. 

It took a few more blows for the guy to quit moving, and a few more than that for the tide raging in Matt to begin to subside. He unclenched his fist, sitting back on his heels, and was startled a moment later to feel Karen’s palm settle, groundingly warm, between his shoulder blades.

“God, _thank you_ ,” she breathed. “Are you okay?”

Yes. No. She was, physically, apart from a bruise he could sense swelling on her neck, but she so easily might not have been. He didn’t know what to say, what to do; of course coming out of this with his secret intact had been impossible from the moment all this it began, but Matt felt loss twisting in his gut nonetheless. Karen might not have witnessed the moment when he pulled the mask over his face, but she wouldn’t have needed to. She knew precisely who she was touching right now. 

Matt breathed out. She _was_ still touching him. And she wasn't scared, not anymore, not of _him_ , and she wasn't repulsed…. Her heartbeat was calm and steady, and she was right by his side.

“He's out,” Matt said, in lieu of an answer to her question. “The one in the kitchen is too.”

“What, you just know? How?”

“Breathing. Heart rate. We need to tie them up, maybe lock them in the fridge while we decide where to go from here…. If you go next door to the butcher shop, you should find a big spool of twine. Key’s in the drawer next to the register.”

“Got it,” Karen said, with a determination that warmed him right now to his bones.

With Karen out of the room, Matt spit blood from between his teeth, wiped at his mouth and chin, and checked the gash crossing his palm. Not oozing too badly. Good.

When she returned, they trussed the guy up and carried him to the kitchen together, then tied up the other one. “Open the walk-in for me, would you?” Matt asked, hoisting the bigger thug over his shoulder.

“They won't freeze to death, will they?” she asked, while Matt arranged them on the floor of the refrigerator several feet apart, face down.

“Nah. Not cold enough.”

“Not sure I care, anyway.”

Matt smiled briefly. “It'll just give them a little something extra to worry about if they come to before we’re ready.” He locked the door and tested the handle. “Let's go out front. I'll hear them if they come to, but we won't have to worry about them hearing us.”

He didn’t expect any more company, at least not any time soon. He doubted they had backup in the wings; more people in the loop meant more people who could squeal, and after all, it was supposed to be an easy job.

“You'll hear them,” Karen repeated slowly. “Like you heard that customer come in the other night, when we were….” She pulled in a ragged breath. “Will you please - will you take off the mask?”

His fingers felt clumsy. Hooking them in the cloth, Matt pulled it from his head, and pointed his face in her direction as best as he could. He felt naked, doubly so: she'd never seen him without his glasses before.

She'd certainly never seen everything he was before.

“ _There_ ,” Karen whispered, hand lifting in the air. But she let if fall back down to her side, and Matt berated himself for feeling strangely bereft. It wasn't as if she’d ever touched his face before, was it?

Just as she’d done earlier that evening, Karen chose a seat at the bar. Matt followed suit, angling his body toward her on the stool and resting his arm on the laminate countertop. “How,” Karen said. “I mean, _how_ , you’re -”

“Blind?”

“ _The man in the mask._ How? I don’t care how good your hearing is, there’s more to it than that.”

Blowing out a breath, Matt said, “Most people rely on sight first, and everything else second. I’m… extremely good with everything else.”

“That sounds like half an answer. Less than half.”

“Yeah.” Matt sighed. “It is. Look, I’ll tell you more later, I promise, but I think some other questions are more important right now, before our friends wake up.” He prayed Karen could shed some light on things. He certainly wasn't above trying to get information out of the assholes tied up in the refrigerator, but chances of them knowing much of use felt slim, and the thought of having to do it in front of Karen was enough to make him hesitate. 

When Karen didn’t disagree with him, Matt went on, “I expected something to happen with Dior cologne guy, but I didn’t expect this. But you’re not as surprised as I am, are you?” 

“Dior cologne guy?”

“The man from Confederated Global. He wore Dior at your office today. I can smell it on your clothes. In your hair.”

“Of _course_ you can.” Karen cleared her throat. “Um, I don’t think anyone ever expects something like this? But I guess, no, now that it’s happened, I’m not surprised.”

“Why not?”

She pulled a hand through her hair, twisting the strands. “Turns out my boss is involved in money laundering. Maybe everyone at Union Allied is, for all I know. I found out by accident. Got an email with a file attached that definitely wasn’t meant for me.”

Matt swallowed. “And someone knows about it?”

“Yeah, my boss. I asked him about it. Wanted to see what he would say. I played it off like I had no idea what I was asking about, I'm just a girl from the sticks, you know -”

“Jesus. When was this?”

“About a week ago.” Karen hugged herself, rubbing her shoulders. “Maybe it just took that long for them to decide to - to kill me. Or maybe -”

“What?”

“Well... I don't know how much you follow social media, but I’m... I have a Twitter, and a blog, and I write about things happening in the city. Things people need to know about.”

“OpenBook,” Matt said slowly. “Right? Foggy talks about you. You do - really brave work. Oh my God, Karen.”

All that time on the computer. All that fire and dedication, fingers flying over the keys.

Matt felt like he’d stumbled right up to the edge of a chasm he hadn’t even known was there. If Karen was about to go tumbling in, he’d just have to throw himself in first; become a bridge, if he could, or if not, let his broken body become a solid place for her to land.

“Yeah. Well. Someone has to. You understand that, don't you,” Karen said. It wasn't a question. “Anyway, I posted something yesterday - not about the money laundering, something else - and it really blew up. I don't _know_ that it’s connected to Union Allied, but I thought it was - likely. And now, after all this....”

“So whether they knew it was your post or not,” Matt said, thinking out loud, “if you threw their asses on the fire yesterday, today they may have been cleaning up shop.”

“Yeah.”

Reaching out, Matt touched the back of Karen's hand, and closed his fingers over hers when she opened to his touch. “We need a plan,” he said. “We need to get this file off your plate and onto someone else's. If the whole city knows, you won't be a target anymore.”

“I guess I could go ahead and post? I didn't think I was ready, I wanted to make sure I understood what I was dealing with before I went public, but….”

“It might be better if you don't. Keep the lines between Karen Page and OpenBook as separate as you can. We could leave it with someone else. Someone with experience with these kinds of stories.”

“Like a newspaper? An investigative journalist? Seems like most places just publish fluff these days, but….” Karen tapped the fingers of her free hand on the countertop. “Yeah. Maybe we'll get lucky. What about those guys in the back? The Mask doesn't stick around to talk to cops, does he?”

“Heh. No. Not if he can help it. Matt Murdock could, but…we _could_ just leave them outside the station for Foggy's friend Brett. These are career guys, I'm sure they're wanted for other things, too. They'll get booked on something.”

He heard her smile in her voice. “Merry Christmas Brett.”

There were so many things they needed to do, but for a few moments they just sat quietly together, hand in hand. Matt's mind kept circling back to the heat of her fingers and the bright, steady flare of her presence beside him; Karen was safe, and here, and not going anywhere.

Talk about lucky.

Matt slid off the stool, opening his arms. “Karen,” he said, “come here?” She did immediately, folding herself against his chest while he wrapped his arms around her. Mindful of her bruise, Matt buried his face in her neck in a place where she smelled just like _her_ \- no poisonous cologne, no thug’s sweaty grip, just skin and sweetness - and held on tight.

His throat was thick; it was a while before it felt clear enough to speak. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispered, pulling her a little closer still.

“You, too. You _are_ okay, right?” Karen pulled back just a bit, hands skimming his sides, combing through his hair, touching the corner of his mouth, where he knew a cut bisected his lip.

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine.” Emboldened, he touched her hair, running his fingers through the long, cool silk. “Tell me something, though. How bad is the Christmas tree? Is Foggy gonna have a stroke? Can it be saved?”

Karen choked back a laugh. “Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I'm pretty sure it's a goner.” Her breath hitched, and Matt waited for the question he knew was coming next. “Does he know? About you? He doesn't, does he. I know he doesn't think much of this.” She touched the tip of her finger to the mask spilling out of his pocket.

“He - ah - no. I -” Instinctively, Matt started to pull away, but Karen’s hands tightened at his sides. “When I was a kid, my dad was a fighter. Boxer. He never wanted me to do anything like this, he always wanted me to use my head. And my priest, he always told me not to forget my heart…. So that diploma I got from Columbia, that was for them.” Matt bit down on his lip. It was hard to say this out loud, harder still when she was so close. But her heartbeat was steady, and her hands were too, and it helped. “That person, the one I was trying to be - that's the person Foggy met. This one - I'm not so sure he'd want to know.”

“The one who uses his hands?” Gently, Karen tugged at Matt’s arms until those hands were pressed between them, then dropped a light kiss to his knuckles. “And his heart?” She spread her palm over his chest. “And his head?” Lightly, so lightly, she brushed a kiss against his temple. “You never know. People can surprise you.”

Matt breathed, pulling her words, her scent, her heat, her _everything_ into his lungs, his body, his soul. “Yeah. Karen -” She made a soft, enquiring noise. “I really wanna kiss you right now, but -”

“You’ve got blood in your mouth,” she said softly, touching his cheek. “I know. It’s okay.” She peppered his face with soft kisses, touching her lips to his temple, eyelids, ears, and cheeks, but never his mouth, until his skin tingled with bright heat and his hands were clinging to her waist. “I can take a rain check,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Of course. You're still going to walk me home when this is all over, aren't you, Mr. Murdock?”

He smiled, dipping his head to press his lips to her cheek, desperate to reflect even a fraction of the warmth she gave him so freely back to her in return. “You better believe it, Miss Page.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hi at [tumblr](http://significantowl.tumblr.com)!


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